A couple of years ago at an Oscar party, I met Jack Dorsey. The rapper 50 Cent and Cameron Diaz were pushing through the crowds to pay homage to the co-founder of Twitter, but I could only think of one thing to say to him: ''If my marriage dies, it's your fault.'' He laughed; I didn't. I wasn't joking. Princess Diana had three people in her marriage - I've got more than 3 million. And I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of people I don't know telling me stories of the escapades on Twitter of my husband, Piers Morgan. I'm tired of the dinner party conversation surrounding those virtual romps (never having used it myself, I'm oblivious to what goes on in the Twittersphere). I'm tired of the pitying glances of other women in restaurants as he sits there, tapping out cricket tweets to Kevin Pietersen in between mouthfuls.

I'm tired of watching him miss out on little things like, oh, his daughter's first step (too busy taunting Alan Sugar about the size of his ''follower count''), sunsets (preoccupied, flirting with Cindy Crawford), meteorites (something happened involving Arsenal and some guy named van Persie), and birds of paradise (who cares about them when you're in the midst of a cyberspace caper with Wayne Rooney?).

When he walked into the kitchen recently, beaming, to tell me that he was trending worldwide - whatever that means - because ''the members of One Direction tweeted 'Piers Morgan is smelly','' I should have skipped the divorce lawyer and demanded the keys to the house right there.

Advertisement

You know those Japanese tourists who walk around the National Gallery with a video camera glued to their right eye? That's what Twitter is. It's about forsaking the present moment, in all its freshness and its glory, in order to brag about it later. It's about perceiving anything that is not shared with thousands of people you don't know as being entirely without value. Saying you're on Twitter because of the newsfeeds is like saying you read Playboy for the articles.

There are plenty of Twitter widows out there. Gary Lineker's wife, Danielle, allegedly banned the former footballer from using the site earlier this month, but Lineker's red card was rescinded on appeal and he was back within a week. However ecstatic Lineker was, he was nowhere near as jubilant as my husband, who came running into the room, shouting: ''Lineker's back!'' ''That's great darling,'' I said. ''Oh, and your daughter just said 'Daddy' for the first time.''

According to The New York Times, an American man named Jordy Trachtenberg has documented every bowl of ramen noodles he's eaten in the past two years and posted pictures of them on his blog, Ramentology. He is one of the imbeciles being targeted in a new crackdown by US restaurateurs on food photography. Yes, there are people who actually do this. In California, the flashes going off around you in restaurants are more likely to be people immortalising their ribeyes than would-be paparazzi grabbing furtive shots of Eva Longoria eating mac 'n' cheese.

Talk about not living for the moment. Rather than confiscate their cameras or eject them from restaurants, management should let them keep their precious photograph and confiscate the food. See how much fun these people find their cretinous pastime then.